My grandmother looked over the field of ripening grain and saw into her future. She saw my grandfather driving his beat up ’46 Ford pick-up down the dusty road, saw six babies, saw two funerals, four weddings, and then she saw me.

I was wailing in a cradle, waiting and wailing. The house was filling with smoke. She saw two more funerals.

On the day of the fire, my grandmother phoned my mother. “You be careful, hon.” Grandmother could feel the fire coming.

My mom, she told me later, had laughed dismissively. “Yes, ma.” She had set out the candles and was enjoying the twinkling. She fell asleep on the couch. Dad was in bed, gone to bed early because he was on the early shift the next day. One candle had caught the drapes. The house was engulfed in moments.

Grandmother felt the flames grab the fabric, and phoned. When there was no answer, she called the fire department. They didn’t ask how someone 400 miles away knew there was a fire. They went. They found me, waiting for them and wailing to tell them where I was. My door was shut. The master bedroom door was open. Two more funerals.

And so I came to live with my Grandmother, and to look across the same fields, and to glance into my own distant future.